Angel's Truth (Angelwar Book 1)

by A. J. Grimmelhaus

  Two mugs of some hot, spicy concoction thumped down on the table, steamy liquid sloshing over the rims, and Katarina looked up to see Stetch folding himself between bench and table, sliding a room key across to her.

  It looked like all the residents of Rickron’s Elbow were here, celebrating the New Year and new century with wild abandon. The spots on the floor suggested blood had already been shed, but Katarina couldn’t smell it with the stink of sweat filling her nose. The pungent aroma of her drink was a welcome reprieve from the musky odour and she breathed it in gratefully.

  ‘Mulled wine?’

  Stetch shrugged. ‘No cocoa.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Katarina sighed. The celebrations back home in Sudalra wouldn’t be as boisterous as this, but her people did celebrate the New Year. The churchers claimed it as their own, and although the Sudalrese believed in the Prophet and his words, they still celebrated the beginning of a new year. Partly, Katarina thought, to annoy the churchers. The other reason, of course, was much more obscure, a reason known only to the Sworn. Stetch knew, she could see, raising his cup with a muttered toast to the dead on his lips. Katarina lifted her own cup, sipping the liquid as shadows passed by the window. She froze, cup hovering beneath her lips. The windows were steamed up from the press of bodies and the roaring fire, the smoke of which only occasionally found the chimney. More and more passed by, tall bundles of man-shaped furs with snow-capped peaks. She reached a hand towards the window to wipe away the moisture but Stetch plucked her wrist from the air and placed her hand back on the table, covering it with his own.

  ‘Might recognise you,’ he grunted.

  ‘Unhand me, you oaf.’

  His hand slid from her own and Katarina reluctantly wrapped her fingers around the mug, watching as the procession of men passed outside. None of the other patrons noticed, most too drunk to see beyond their noses, but Stetch’s eyes remained fixed on the steamed window pane.

  ‘How many?’ she asked as the last shadow passed.

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘We should do something.’

  He snorted.

  ‘Perhaps he’ll escape.’

  Stetch didn’t snort this time, but she could see the disbelief writ across his face. Katarina sighed, and raised her cup again. It will be as the Prophet wills, she told herself, but for once the sentiment was as sour as her wine.

  Stetch, meanwhile, regarded her coolly, his hooded eyes revealing no clue as to the man’s thoughts. Katarina could guess, though. Probably wishing he’d been given another assignment. Was it punishment that had seen the two of them paired? And if so, whose? Katarina still wasn’t sure, but she was stuck with the Sworn blade, at least until they returned home. There wouldn’t be much to report, she knew. Aside from a couple of paltry trade deals the only news of any interest was the events at Icepeak and the march of the Band of Blood across Norve. In pursuit, so it seemed, of none other than Tol Kraven himself. Katarina still found it difficult to believe; the most independent and most feared mercenary band slaughtering an abbey full of old monks and young boys, then proceeding to march east, further inland. The Band of Blood were wraiths who struck in the night. Come morning all that remained was a trail of blood and a pile of corpses; looted corpses, usually. So what has changed? Why attack the abbey, and why chase down a sullen boy? The Church of the Nameless Maker had many enemies, but Katarina didn’t know of any who’d risk retribution from the Knights Reve. Not unless the rewards are even greater.

  She almost missed the high-pitched sound. There was a good deal of merriment in the inn, only her and Stetch remaining apart. It sounded faint above the hubbub, but the way Stetch stiffened slightly confirmed her suspicion. The second sound was unmistakable: the shattering of glass accompanied by a scream that Katarina thought would go on for ever, loud and high enough that even the inn’s most drunken denizens recognised the distinctive sound of someone being thrown through a window. As the scream ended the inn fell silent and the dull thump of a body striking ground made several patrons judder in sympathy. None, however, made any move to investigate, even when more and more screams followed, a whole chorus of them, short and long, loud and soft, high and low. All were coloured with terror, but the residents of Rickron’s Elbow resumed their conversations, banter, and whispered promises to wenches. The noise in the Sceptre quickly returned to its previous level, but in the half-silences screams could still be heard.

  ‘We must stop this,’ Katarina said, forcing herself upright.

  Stetch’s hand on her shoulder was iron and Katarina bounced against it, forced back to her rump as Stetch’s grip held her seated.

  ‘No.’

  Katarina opened her mouth, words already forming on her lips as she felt his fingers slide across her neck. They traced a specific but peculiar path and her lips formed a surprised O as Stetch’s thumb stabbed a pressure point and the world went dark.

  *

  Stetch removed his hand from Katarina’s collar bone. She looked almost peaceful when she was unconscious.

  Left or right?

  She fell right, slowly toppling over and slumping against the stone wall, wayward strands of hair sticking to the steamed window pane. Stetch considered his options for a moment, then picked up his cup of mulled wine and took a draught. Then another. When he had drained the cup he switched it with Katarina’s and finished that cup too. When that was done he let out a rather satisfying belch, rejoicing in the simple pleasure of not receiving a reprimand or sharp look for it. He forced another one, just because he could. The screams had finished now and he had a fair idea what that meant, but it wasn’t that thought which was troubling him and causing his brow to furrow almost as deep as the grooves on his cheeks. He couldn’t be sure, that was the thing, and Stetch always liked to be sure. For a moment as his hand glided across Katarina’s shoulder and his thumb sought out the pressure point, for a moment it had seemed as though she understood what he was doing, knew exactly what point he was aiming for. There were others among the Sudalrese that knew the fighting art of Yie’Den-Su well enough to have learned such esoteric skills, but they were few and far between. Most of the deadliest techniques were known only by the Sworn. Or so Stetch had believed until today. He would have expected Katarina to have learned at least the basics, perhaps taught by her father or one of her brothers, but to know such things as the fourteen points? It was hard to believe anyone would teach the girl such deadly arts. Then again, he was surprised someone hadn’t killed her back home, assuming she behaved the same way in Sudalra as she did with him, and Stetch couldn’t imagine her ever behaving differently. He could imagine putting his hands around her throat and throttling the life out of her though. That was remarkably easy to imagine, hardly any effort at all. And so very tempting.

  The lone serving girl plodded past their table, her gaze lingering just that little bit too long on Katarina. ‘Not used to mulled wine,’ he told her with a put-upon expression that came without difficulty. Stetch stared at Katarina a few moments longer, then snatched the room key off the table and shuffled off the bench. He dragged Katarina across to him and hauled her out, draping one arm over his shoulder while he got a good hold beneath her other armpit. The inn’s patrons were so drunk none of them noticed as he hauled her across the room towards the back stairs, the toes of her boots scraping along the floor as Stetch muttered a litany of curses in his native tongue.

  The things I do for my people.

  11.

  Stetch stared at the young woman for a long time, splayed across the bed like a troublesome stain. They were alone, far from home, and yet the girl’s concern had been for some sullen boy who had little gratitude and a convent full of hoary old nuns who, by the sound of things, were now either dead or subdued. The screams had floated like whispers on the wind to the Sceptre of the North, and Stetch had seen one or two of the tavern’s patrons wince. Wince, but make no effort to see what caused the screams, which, he thought, was probably quite sensible. Stetch knew who
was causing the screams and he wasn’t overly keen on getting close to them either, but the Sworn had standing instructions about the Band and Kenzin Morrow in particular. Twenty-three of the Band was going to make things interesting, maybe even uncertain. Bugger it, he thought, clicking his tongue in annoyance. Failing the Black Duke would be worse, he decided. He locked the room from the inside, checked his sword sat comfortably on his hip, then unlatched the window, shivering as a blast of freezing air hammered him.

  In seconds he was out of the window, closing it behind him and dropping lightly to the cold ground below. He stayed away from the inn’s windows, crossing the village’s lone road and running silently from shadow to shadow. He circled round the house on the elbow’s outer curve, ducking low as he passed the windows, and came to a halt by a snow-covered pile of firewood out back. Stetch remained motionless for minutes, directing his misty breath downwards so any sentries would not see it. His eyes roamed up the hill to the convent’s open gates and the building beyond. The place was deathly silent and Stetch shivered, not just from the cold. Twenty-three was a sizeable number. Still, if he died at least he wouldn’t have to suffer another lecture in the morning.

  Stetch waited for a full five minutes before even considering moving, all the while admonishing himself for what he was about to do. After the five minutes were up and he had heard no sounds of movement, he left the shadows. He kept at a low crouch, moving slowly towards the hill’s summit. Stetch kept the slender path to his right, moving further and further away from it as he ascended, angling away from the gates. From the bottom of the hill he could only see the roof and the upper section of the convent’s first floor, but as he inched upwards more and more of the building came into view. He could still hear the carousing of the inn’s patrons behind him, but it was a dull, muted sound. To Stetch’s ears, every slow, tortuous footfall in the icy snow sounded like a tolling bell. The ground squeaked and snarled beneath him, but Stetch forced himself onward as fast as he dared. The night was dark but the sky cloudless under the full amber moon. One sentry is all it takes, he thought. A single sentry and I’m crowfeast. He hoped the cold had driven the invaders inside; out in the open like this he felt naked.

  The top of the convent’s wall came into view, the wrought iron gates to his right now firmly closed. Stetch inched further forward, the squealing snow forcing him to wince. He pressed on, hoping that any sound would either remain unheard, or would pass for wildlife, though what animal would be stupid enough to be out in this weather was something he didn’t dare ponder. Stetch realised that he had passed the plane where the heads of any men guarding the gates would be visible from his vantage point, and sighed in relief, mist spouting from his blue lips. Too bloody cold to be out in this. He carried on though, almost to the wall. Instinct kicked in and Stetch froze in place as a sound like the rumpling of aged parchment reached his ears. Very slowly, he raised his head. A grotesque shape was dropping through the sky, large black wings flapping in earnest. They were attached to a body blacker than the night itself. For a moment, Stetch thought he saw coal-red eyes sweeping the horizon. He gulped, and it sounded to his ears the loudest sound in the world. As the beast dropped down towards the convent’s entrance, flurries of snow rose from the ground, swirling like leaves in an autumn gale. Stetch swallowed, and shuffled the rest of the way to the wall, edging towards the gates and hoping the noise of the beast’s wings would drown out his own footfalls.

  Stetch closed his eyes as he reached the gap in the wall where the wrought iron gates began, his breathing fast and shallow. He knew what lay the other side of the gates and could hear its sandpaper voice. A demon, he thought. They truly exist. With snail-quick pace, he turned to face the wall, leaning across so his right eye could see through the gates, as much as possible of his body hidden behind the wall. Somehow it didn’t seem like anywhere near enough protection from the monstrosity.

  A man, one of the Band of Blood, stood outside the convent’s entrance, partly obscured by the demon’s squat figure and crumpled wings. The two were talking, and snatches of it reached Stetch, though it made little sense. Mostly, the impression he got was that the Band of Blood had displeased the demon and it was considering killing them. Or eating them. It was hard to tell which. The man was still talking, and that said a lot about him; Stetch thought he’d have lost his tongue at the mere sight of the demon, let alone standing before the monstrosity. After some heated argument the mercenary went back inside the convent, emerging moments later with several of his men and eight nuns in plain dresses of grey wool. Their hands bound by rope, and most screamed in fear at the sight of the demon. Stetch didn’t blame them. A couple of them dropped to their knees in fear, one fainted and three of them ran. One of them, faster than the others, sprinted for the gates. One of the mercenaries slipped in the snow, but another raced after her. She ran awkwardly, hampered by the long dress that brushed her toes and the rope that bound her wrists together. Her eyes were leaf green, wide and full of panic. There was chaos all over the grounds as women sought to escape their captors, fleeing haphazardly from the demon and its minions. Stetch thought she’d never make it but the woman got close enough to lay fingers on the gates. Stetch pulled his head back as, the gate half open, one of the mercenaries ploughed into the woman from behind, the gates shivered in protest as she was flung against them and dropped to the snow with the mercenary.

  ‘Help me,’ she croaked, her eyes locking onto Stetch. He was crouched low, but at the centre of the gates where the woman lay, she could see him. He froze, realising that a glance from the mercenary would raise the alarm. All he had to do was look up and his silhouette would give him away sure as Norve was ball-shrivellingly cold. He held his breath, slowly leaning in closer to the wall. The mercenary, a young Sudalrese man with grim eyes, clambered to his feet, a swathe of the nun’s dress in his fist. His head rose up as he dragged her from the ground. Stetch was conscious of every beat of his heart as the head swung slowly left to right, an automatic sweep of the darkness. The village filled his gaze, then the path that led to it, then the expanse of snow, his eyes swinging slowly towards the wall and Stetch’s uneven shape against it.

  ‘Help!’ the woman screamed, and Stetch saw her fearful green eyes pleading with him. She took in another breath to yell again, but whatever was on her lips never came out, the mercenary’s gloved fist crashing into her jaw. Stetch thought he heard bone crack, perhaps a broken jaw. The woman was stunned, only able to gurgle as a trickle of blood ran down her chin. The mercenary hauled her back to her feet, the fight gone out of her, but until she disappeared from Stetch’s view those eyes accused him silently. Seconds passed, and Stetch found he could once again breathe normally. Too close, he thought, too close by far. He needed to get away from this insanity, far away from the demon, but he was trapped against the outer wall. The men outside might not hear his footfalls in the snow, but Stetch wasn’t going to risk finding out how good the demon’s hearing was.

  He didn’t dare poke his head out from cover again, but the weak light from inside the convent cast long shadows that played on the snow beyond the gates. Clenching his fingers in frustration, Stetch watched the shadows shift as the women were brought to the centre of the yard, ringed by shadows bearing swords. The demon was at the centre, too, its malformed silhouette strange to Stetch’s eyes.

  ‘Where is it?’ he heard it hiss.

  Only whimpers and sobs answered it, so it asked again, louder and angrier. Still its answer was the same, and the demon roared, Stetch jerking back in surprise at the sound and almost losing his balance.

  A scream tore through the night, high as the clouds, and Stetch saw some shadow fly through the air from the demon’s hand, dropping out of view. Another roar, and a brief scream, cutting off before gaining momentum. Stetch shivered at the sound, but his eyes were rooted to the shadow-play beyond the gates as something large flashed across the snow. The gates bent with the force of a jarring impact and, unwillingly, Stetch pulled hi
s eyes from the shadows. Broken, battered and missing an arm, he saw the same nun on the ground, and in almost the same position. Her bright green eyes had dulled with death, but they still seemed to be staring right at him. Stetch closed his eyes, but could not shut out the sounds as the demon demanded answers of the surviving nuns. None pleased it, and finally the demon lost what little patience it had. A choir of screams echoed through the grounds as Stetch watched its shadow swing and sway with deadly speed, each shadow it touched falling limp and lifeless. In seconds only the demon and its armed minions remained. Some of the shadows, Stetch saw, were shaking, and he didn’t think it was from the bitter cold. The wall that separated him from them didn’t feel like enough of a barrier. A mountain would have been better, a few nations preferable. He couldn’t risk moving, so Stetch remained motionless as the demon’s rasping voice cut through the silence, relaying orders and threats to the mercenaries that cowered around it. He listened, watching the long shadows stretched across the snow. Minutes passed, one of the mercenaries receiving instructions from the demon. Finally, Stetch sighed in relief as the demon threw itself into the air, dark wings stretching out as it took to the sky. The shadows of the Band of Blood stood still for a minute after the demon departed before slinking back indoors. Stetch let another minute pass then poked his head out beyond the wall and peered into the grounds. The snow was spattered with blood and gore, a dark pool of it at the centre around the bodies. They lay at funny angles like broken toys, pale and lifeless. The Sworn were trained to kill, to maim, to disappear like shadows in the night, but Stetch’s training had not prepared him for sights such as this. He rose swiftly and started back down the hill.